Fever Pitch at Camp Creosote
by novellanouveau
Summary: An AU in which Kurt, having lived in Cincinnati since he was four, has almost escaped being a Lima-loser. Instead, his history with one Karofsky plays out over one long summer at Camp Creosote: the home of the wealthy's intolerable children, where Kurt is in self-imposed exile while Burt and Carole honeymoon and he awaits his first and final year at McKinley. How bad can it be?
1. Chapter 1

_With no ill-intentions towards Ryan Murphy. Just saying._

_September_

Karofsky's eyes are creased in the rearview mirror, his blunt fingertips drumming a counter beat to the burr of the truck engine where they meld on the dash. He jerks a half-hearted hand in a wave when Finn's door slams, and slants a goodbye through the wound down window.  
"S'later, Hudson," he yawns; his open fist grasps for the handbrake.  
Finn's face drops in protest, and he angles one gangly arm through the window, a coaxing slug to one broad shoulder, "Dude, come on. You've got to meet my brother."  
Karofsky grunts, throwing him a look of grudging curiosity, "I didn't know you had a brother."  
Finn's nose wrinkles, and he stuffs a large hand in his pocket, "Well, I guess I do. He's Mom's new husband's kid."  
Karofsky huffs a scoff of faint amusement, interjects poker faced: "Step-brother."  
Finn seems pleased by this: "Yeah, sort of. He just moved here from Cincinnati." He tips his head slightly in a parody of discretion, and he wets his lips nervously, "I said about his Dad, didn't I? He's like loaded, man, and we're still living in this -" he makes an abortive gesture and then guiltily breaks off, "You should meet him," His mouth slips down at one corner for an instant, a waver in his smile: "He's cool."  
"Tch," Karofsky jerks his head away impatiently, "Dude-" The front door slams and Finn's smile stretches smugly.  
"Oh, hey, Kurt."  
Kurt affects a small wave, tugging the front door closed behind him. "Bonsoir, mon frère," he hums, proffering a bland smile. "Comment ça va?"

Karofsky's fingers spasm around the wheel, and dimly, he hears something that might be a fracture in his sanity, but more likely is a string of infamous Hudson inanity, spooling from Finn's smug mouth, his smug eyes darting towards him - smugly. Dave knows, he's daring Kurt to spot him.

He sees Kurt's head tip politely, his fringe falling unstyled and overlong into his eyes before he huffs it away irritably.

He sees his own hand clenched around the ignition.

He sees the windscreen tableau of Finn's disappointment and Kurt's incomprehension slip away with a sense of drifting.

He sees the road streaming under him, and the rain flecking on the glass.

He sees a face he's tried to forget.

_June_

In the flicker of white fluorescence, Kurt watches his reflection blink in and out of his hand mirror; he glimpses his own scowl before he snaps it shut. Kurt wonders if he's overreacting.

Ensconced in a rattletrap old bus, in the gathering gloom of a muggy grey day and stifling heat, 'overreacting' is a bygone, exotic notion. Six seats ahead, the only other passenger flashes his coarse red skin and wiry hair over one shoulder in the shape of a frown. Kurt sends up a silent prayer to a deity he doesn't believe in that he will not meet his end with the smell of cooking polyester and burnt rubber swelling inside him, and the ravaged face of a stranger the last one in his mind. Kurt can't afford to be a statistic amid a spree of seedy public transport killings. He crosses his fingers and hides them under his thigh against the stiff bristle of the seat fabric and unfolds the crumpled piece of paper Carole had pressed into his other hand with a grateful smile. Kurt thinks of the spark of giddy laughter flaring between Burt and Carole at the airport gate - the honeymoon bon voyage - and then of the mosquito repellent he'd found - with a dawning sense of horror - tucked in his suitcase this morning. At this moment, the triumphant accomplishment of his abrupt u-turn into model stepson is poor consolation.

He draws a finger down the crease at the page centre, and traces the faded print: Creosote. Amid the smog of a cheap photocopy, a girl throws back her head and gurns, her braces burnt to ink stains like rotting teeth. He squints and realises she's pointing at a lake, where an empty raft bobs ominously. Kurt presses his forehead to the smeared window with a grimace, and thinks maybe a well timed seedy public transport killing wouldn't be so bad after all.

Kurt flinches awake to a stranger's hand on his shoulder and the ravaged red face hovering above him.  
"You for Camp Creosote?" The face asks, without seeming to move its mouth; it reclaims its hand with an air of personal violation.  
Kurt fights the clamouring urge to say no. The face looks unimpressed, and doesn't offer to help Kurt haul his suitcase to the door. Kurt hears the impatient idle of the engine and - glancing askance at the driver, who, preoccupied with chewing smackingly on gum, proceeds to ignore him - realises maybe, just maybe, this barren strip of nowhere is his stop.

He gingerly toes his suitcase onto the ground, watching the heels of his boots sink into the mud in dismay. Over one shoulder, he regards the driver with faint disbelief, whose only response is to close the doors and disembark.  
"Thank you," Kurt grinds out under his breath, "for a lovely journey."  
"You're late."

Kurt startles, neck whipping round painfully fast. A hulking figure regards him with furrowed brow, hands stowed in pockets, reclining with negligible disregard for the laws of inevitability against a sagging wire fence. His his face is an unimpressed rictus. Kurt's mouth falls open in protest but the boy carelessly overrides him, "Two days late." To Kurt's dismay, his eyes light upon the mouth of a beaten dirt track disappearing into an overgrown thicket; a low groan escapes him.

The quasi-giant scoffs, straightening to his full, not inconsiderable size, before offering a half hearted, "I'm David."  
Kurt's glare wavers slightly as his eyes flicker of their own accord from David's booted feet to his frowning head, then glares harder just in case. In an almost self-conscious gesture, one of David's large hands tugs the side of his jacket closer around his barrel chest before pressing a heavy, disbelieving look on him: "You sure this is your stop? You don't look like the Creosote sort." His voice is gruff and uninflected, his face closed and bluntly warning.  
Kurt feels a sneer curl his mouth and is gratified to hear his voice steady and cutting, "Well David, I'm loath to admit it, but I agree with you."  
David's face darkens stormily, and a small voice in the back of Kurt's head timidly suggests the stupidity of riling a stranger in the middle of nowhere. Particularly when he is relying upon said stranger to lead him to some semblance of civilisation... Even more prudent when aforementioned stranger is built like a brick shithouse.

He swallows thickly, but keeps his expression tight and controlled. It's best, he knows, not to show weakness. David makes a disgusted noise low in his throat, before he turns on his heel and stalks down the path. Kurt watches him for a pregnant moment, the air loitering close and orange in David's wake, before he grapples his luggage and lumbers after him. It is with a sense of growing trepidation that Kurt marvels what kind of people would consider such a person suitable to work with children. Quick in its wake is the realisation that he's seen that jacket before: he wonders why Finn hadn't thought to warn him a dickwad-jock from McKinley would be here.

* * *

_For Gabriel, loser..._

This is a WIP which should update roughly every week. Feel free to let me know what you think, even if you're simply consumed by rage... which seems unlikely.


	2. Chapter 2

_June_

Kurt hums a wavering song on his panted breath, and tries to burn a hole in the back of David's stupid Letterman jacket.

_People say I'm the life of the party_

_Because I tell a joke or two_

_Although I might be laughing loud and hearty_

_Deep inside I'm blue_

_So take a good look at my face_

_You'll see my smile looks out of place_

_If you look closer, it's easy to trace_

_The tracks of my tears..._

He doesn't think he imagines David quickening his pace. Tripping on a particularly vicious root, he bites down around a curse and forces himself to breathe.

"I hate to be trite," he calls, hoping the strain doesn't show in his voice, "but are we almost there?"

David slows for a moment, but he doesn't stop and he doesn't turn around.

Something indefinable lurks in his tone: "You'll find out if you keep up, alright?"

Kurt counts to four before his voice tears from him, "Surely you realise not everyone is the size of a small building. I can't exactly haul ass like you."

David's shoulders tense furiously, "But I can leave you here to find your own way," he growls.

Kurt feels a cold trickle of fear run down his spine like perspiration, and fights a shiver. "You," he swallows thickly, hating the tremor audible in his voice, "you wouldn't-" Watching Dave's back retreat, he hurries after him, "David, you- oh." Kurt lets his eyes fall closed against the warm glow of lights. "Oh."

David pauses, silhouetted against the lit-up tableau of the campsite; Kurt's not sure he imagines the dart of eyes cast over his shoulder to him, before he brusquely shakes his head and stalks across the playing fields. Kurt drops his suitcase despairingly and wonders if he's supposed to follow.

He is jerked from his morose reverie by a voice: "You must be Kurt. I'm Blaine." Kurt's neck does _not_ snap around in surprise and he does _not_ have to resist the temptation to rub his eyes, lest the figure before him dissolve as a mirage. Blaine's smile, however, does dim slightly for a beat of unease, "I work here." He casts a pantomime glance towards Dave's retreating back before dropping a wink, "Never mind the welcome committee. It's almost impossible not to rub Karofsky up the wrong way," he inclines his head slightly, affecting a conspiratorial tone, "and between you and me he hates to feel like Shell's whipping boy." Kurt regards him with blank incomprehension before delicately crossing one hand across his face; he hums an impatient, questioning note. Unconcerned, Blaine flashes a winning smile and grasps the handle of Kurt's suitcase, "Michelle runs everything here. She sent David to pick you up."

Kurt's tone is dry, "An easily emasculated jock..." He arches one finely shaped eyebrow, "Is he hiding something?"

Blaine releases a rough bark of laughter, "Tip of the iceberg, Mr. Hummel." He hauls Kurt's suitcase up with a low whistle, "You obviously came prepared," he cocks one eyebrow teasingly, "I had you pegged as a spirited camper."

Kurt regards him sulkily before a choked laugh is wrung from him, and he concedes a weary, tolerant smile. "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

Blaine laughs easily, and starts off towards the main camp, lit in the encroaching dark of evening where the light pools at the foot of each cabin. Eight residential cabins bracket the rectangular grounds at the heart of the camp, capped by a long mess hall. Averting his skeptical gaze, Kurt's shudder is only part pretend.

"It's a summer camp, Kurt. No one's expecting you to be Lara Croft."

Kurt makes a languorous, dispirited noise, and smooths his collar with one hand, "I do have places I'd rather be." Blaine shoots him an amused, expectant glance, but doesn't comment, and Kurt feels a pink blush creep up his neck. "Not that I meant - I mean, I'm not trying to imply that this is -" he breaks off with a low noise of frustration, and pointedly looks away, lips pressed together in a prim line.

Blaine laughs, "Relax, Kurt. I think my pride will recover. Besides, I'm hardly a sadistic adrenaline junkie like some of my - ahem - colleagues... _Relax_, Kurt, I'm joking - people don't send their kids here for trauma."

Kurt utters a nervous laugh, "What do you specialise in then? Masochism?"

"If you like - I'm in charge of the choir. We do a show at the end of every camp. I've been organising it since I was nine... Why are you looking at me like that?"

Kurt has slowed to a halt, a feverish light beginning to flicker behind his eyes, "A choir? You only thought to bring this up now?"

Blaine runs a rueful hand over his hair, "Yeah, well you should probably take the word choir with a pinch of salt..." his dark eyes turn thoughtful under his creased brow, "You know, I think we're getting worse each year... Would you believe the number of kids who'd rather throw themselves down a cliff face than belt out a show tune?"

"No, Blaine. No, I would not... But here I am... They don't really do that, do they? Throw people off cliffs?"

"Sure they do. They call it abseiling."

* * *

"You'll be sharing with Markell. He comes here every year," Blaine offers a genial smile towards the boy, who sits cross legged on his bed. He drags his eyes towards them: peering from a mop of frizzy auburn hair and thick-lensed glasses, he looks unimpressed. One bony hand plays nervously with the frayed edge of the book in his lap. Smoothly bypassing his silence, Blaine turns to Kurt with raised eyebrows, "Numbers are kind of low this year, so it'll just be you two in here." Turning to leave, he abruptly swivels on one heel with a flourish: "Ah. I almost forgot - wake up call's at six. You'll know it when you hear it."

Kurt's nostrils flare, "That's not funny, Anderson."

Blaine flashes a smile from the doorway, "The showers only run hot 'til seven, Hummel." The door snicks closed on his gleeful laugh before Kurt can settle on a suitable projectile.

Heaving a sigh in the settling silence, Kurt shoots a dubious glance towards Markell, who is studiously ignoring him, pointedly running a finger under each line of text slightly too fast to be convincing. He can't even summon the incredulity to sigh when his iPhone proffers four empty bars and later, heavy-lidded in the dark, he listens to Markell's nasal whines on his sleeping breath, and thinks, with a shiver, of 'abseiling'.

* * *

_With apologies to Smokey Robinson and the Miracles: The Tracks of My Tears_


	3. Chapter 3

_Day 1_

David sits hunched at the leader's table in the mess hall, morosely shredding a roll between his blunt fingers. _This_, he thinks, _is the last time._ He grunts a bitter laugh. _Just how many years_, he wonders, _will I be telling myself that?_ Seven by his last count. Seven shit-eating years and seven resolutions never to come back. But this year... This year has gone off with an utter _whimper_. Behind his eyes, a flash from the night before - that snotty little jerk-off, scorn spoiling his mouth and eyes sparking accusation. David's eyes shutter closed against the intrusion. He's managed before, he'll manage again - his fingers curl absently into a fist, steeling himself. He's David _Karofsky_, for fuck's sake. One more self-righteous little brat isn't about to change that.

Karofsky nods his satisfaction, unsurprised that the appalled voice in his head belongs to one pre-pubescent Azimio Adams. Scrawny Azimio, who has the unwarranted lust for bloodshed of someone with more than just a big mouth and a short fuse. His equilibrium is almost salvaged when Anderson - in full characteristic swing, oblivious to the irritating impact of his mere presence - chooses that particular moment to drop down at his table, bearing two cups of coffee and a leer. Well, Dave fancies it's a leer, at least. This place could almost be considered tolerable if it weren't for Blaine holier-than-thou Anderson. The fact that David can scarcely remember a time when he hasn't known Blaine _holier-than-thou_ Anderson, or this miserable place, is enough to put him off his breakfast. He averts his scowl out the window, lest Anderson make a misguided bid for conversation, and feels his stomach roil in dismay that _yes_, the veritable intricacies of the universe are conspiring against him. As if fated, his glower falls on the figure of Kurt Hummel crossing by the window, face set grimly and a palpable wilt to his once coiffed hair. David's hand clenches reflexively, piercing the chatter of the hall with the sudden chink of his plate under his fingers. Two seats down, Michelle shoots him a concerned look and David controls himself with an effort._ I'm cracking up,_ he thinks. _It's finally happened._

He can't afford to lose this job. Not this year. He turns it over in his head like a mantra. This is the last time.

* * *

Kurt slaps awake at six to the scream of a claxon. He stifles his groan with the coarse blankets and fights the urge to roll back over._ Pull yourself together, Hummel. Remember - hot showers, hot showers._ Wincing as his toes skitter across the cold wooden slats, Kurt is distressed to see Markell in the same position as the last time he'd seen him, bent stiffly over that one mouldering book with his shrewd, secretive eyes fixed rigidly on the cramped print. The damp curl of his hair at his collar and the fresh shirt are the only indications he's moved at all. _This is not the worst case scenario, Kurt. Just because your roommate is a little eccentric... It's endearing, really. Not weird. Don't think of Friday the 13th, don't think of-_

"Good morning, Markell," he says, as brightly as he can manage.

Markell swivels his head stiffly to regard him with a sombre, uninflected expression. Watching the slight shift of his body, Kurt sees that his t-shirt reads: '_Geode Summit '04_'. He pointedly doesn't ask. He wonders if that's the point.

Kurt's fingers twitch self-consciously with remembered paranoia and first-day-phobias as he enters the mess hall; he is excruciatingly aware of every hair out of place, each bluish smear under his eyes and the pasty pallor to his skin. Never before has he so badly wanted to disappear into the background. He slumps miserably at an empty table, and trails one finger morosely in the grease residue on the formica top. After a long moment he looks up to meet the downcast, frowning eyes of Karofsky, fixing him with a contemplative scowl from across the room. Kurt fights a shiver of regret for having been so quick to make an enemy of him until, watching Karofsky drag his glare towards Blaine as he clambers from the leader's table, Kurt can't help but wonder if maybe Karofsky isn't the kind of enemy one can't help but obtain. It is with a curious mix of self-conscious dismay and buoyant relief that he watches Blaine drop artfully into the seat opposite him.

"Morning, happy camper."

Kurt, tactically shielding his face with one hand, glowers, then realises a beat too late that Blaine can't see it.

Blaine extends a polystyrene cup of coffee and Kurt hastily assembles his expression more amicably. He murmurs his approval and snatches it, secreting a skeptical glance at the contents as he ducks his face gratefully into the steam.

"You," he darts his reluctantly impressed gaze towards Blaine, "are very smooth."

Blaine pairs a careless shrug with a lazy grin, "I've been called worse."

Kurt is dry toned and coyly unimpressed, "And you will be, that I can promise." They share a small smile before Kurt belatedly remembers his exposed imperfection.

Blaine continues oblivious, "So how goes your Creosote experience so far?"

Kurt snorts, "Well, so far my less than conventional arrival is a relative highlight. My cabin mate hasn't spoken a single word to me, I'm cranky and pasty because I was up all night worrying about _abseiling_, the bedsheets were crawling with mites, the showers were crawling with lichen, and the _hot water_ I'd heard rumoured turned out to be just that," he smiles grimly, brusquely tearing a sugar packet into his coffee, "a rumour."

Blaine shakes his head slightly, smiling indulgently, "It has a charm of its own, Kurt. You'll see."

"What a lovely thought," Kurt scoffs, "Unfortunately, Blaine, more often than not ugly things are exactly as they appear." Blaine snickers. There is quiet for a moment.

"Why are you hiding your face?"

Kurt flinches, "I'm not."

* * *

"You're new."

Kurt turns gratefully towards the voice, wondering just how long he was destined to loiter awkwardly on the fringe of the group. The face he meets is enough to make him choke back his eagerness regretfully.

"Yes," he breezes, "how did you know?"

The girl regards him sternly. "You weren't at the opening orientation."

Kurt casts a curious glance about the grounds, milling with people, "No... I wasn't. How did you know?" She stands with one hip cocked and an arm raised in a carelessly elegant gesture, reedy cigarette smoke threading through her fingers. There's a certain something in her air which defies accusations of pretension, which Kurt can't help but admire.

She gives a small shudder, that Kurt isn't wholly convinced is merely for effect, "There were... introductions. Believe me, I would have known."

"I believe you," Kurt smiles blandly, uncertain if this isn't the build-up to some elaborate joke everyone else is sharing in. A quick glance reveals that no one is paying them any mind, and the ache of his cheeks alerts him to the fact that his smile appears more of a rictus than a welcome. He drops it hastily, "I'm Kurt. Hummel." He toys with the idea of extending a hand.

"Frankie," she takes a lazy drag, gaze unwavering on Kurt's face. "It's more than that, though. You've never been here before, have you?"

Kurt's laugh is tight and high, "No. This isn't exactly my idea of... fun. Or of... civilization." He tails off, the laugh dying in his throat.

The girl exhales a curt breath of smoke, stirring the black hair fallen over one eye, "You think I'm here for fun?" She gestures with the cigarette to encompass the small knot of their group, talking amongst themselves with varying expressions of ease. "You think any of these people are here for fun?"

Kurt frowns, unsettled by the growing and out of place notion that he's about to be told off, and raises his chin haughtily. "I was labouring under the assumption that was the general idea, yes."

She snorts, "Right," she snorts again, as if once wasn't enough, "You really _are_ new. Let me tell you, Hummel - Camp Creosote is the place where families come to die. People don't want to see their kids all summer, they leave them here and pick them up just in time for school."

"Are - are you sure?" To Kurt's curious gaze, everyone seems pretty content.

She swipes the hair from her eye in annoyance, revealing an incredulous spark of anger, "Like these saps have any idea of what's going on._ Think_, Hummel. The leaders don't let them cotton on - they pump them full of adrenaline so they've no time to think. When you're facing a forty foot drop with nothing but a harness to save you, or grappling down some godforsaken rock the last thing you're thinking about is maybe Daddy doesn't love me."

Kurt stares at her with an expression of glazed horror, watching Frankie become increasingly frantic. Her thin chest heaves. "I see."

She deflates smoothly, calm once more, and takes a pleased drag. At least, Kurt thinks she's pleased. Her mouth seems fixed in a perpetual moue of suspicion, eyes heavy lidded and cynical. Kurt's mind flashes to Markell with the first stirrings of fondness.

He jumps when he hears the voice behind him: "Put it out, Frank."

She is unimpressed, "No."

Kurt doesn't turn at the sound of Karofsky's voice, but crosses his arms defensively over his chest and fights the feeling of vulnerability.

"Cute," Karofsky's voice is gruffly amused, and he extends one large hand. Kurt flinches away, unsettled by the proximity, and risks a glance towards Karofsky, who ignores him, watching with a suggestion of bland satisfaction on his round face as Frankie tries to stub it out on his palm; he slaps her wrist with easy agility, and is gone before her cigarette hits the grass. Kurt fights the urge to watch him leave. Just to be sure.

Frankie's nose is wrinkled with annoyance as she stares at her cigarette, before extinguishing it with one curt stomp of a Doc Marten. She shakes her hair back and produces another from behind her ear. Kurt hopes his expression of revulsion doesn't show as she tucks it into a corner of her mouth and digs for her lighter in one pocket.

"Well, Hummel," she mumbles, "I hope you like abseiling."

* * *

Kurt does not. Checking his phone signal for the twelfth time to no avail, Kurt would like nothing so much as a long walk off a short bridge.

"Are you bunking off already?"

Kurt stiffens in surprise, then relaxes gradually when he recognises Blaine's voice. He drawls, "I held out long enough. Personally, I'm astonished at my own will power." He pivots one one heel in a neat little circle and waves his phone. "No signal, huh? In the interest of full disclosure you should really include a warning in your brochure."

"Considering our brochures predate the cell phone, I'm not surprised, but I'll pass it on to my superiors," he raises a teasing brow and Kurt can't help but glare. Blaine simply laughs, "If you smarten up your attitude, Hummel, I might just let you in on a trade secret."

Kurt's tone is petulant, "Do I want to know?"

"That really isn't what I meant, Kurt." He gestures Kurt to follow with a jerk of his head, taking a coaxing step backwards, "Smile - you're at Camp Creosote!"

* * *

_Excuse the gratuitous use of italics. And, er, don't own glee._


	4. Chapter 4

**Was working on one long chapter but felt bad about my self indulgent wobbly earlier - so here's half of it. Whoo - our boys' first showdown. The first of many - huzzah, indeed.**

_I don't own Glee. They probably wouldn't sing if I did..._

* * *

"You know, when I agreed to go with you, I didn't realise you were luring me into yet more duress."

Blaine shakes his head, craning a glance over one shoulder where Kurt trails several steps behind, "We're climbing a hill, Kurt. Surely it's not your first time."

"I've climbed hills before... I didn't like it then, either."

Blaine strolls backwards, hands in pockets, and adopts a wheedling tone, "It'll be worth it - that's a promise."

Kurt's grumble is snatched up by the breeze, "It better be worth $1800 for Ostrich leather boots."

"Alright, alright, before you compile an expense list - we're high enough."

Kurt clambers to his side, and fixes him with an expectant look, "Impress me, Anderson."

Before them, the skyline roils with encroaching sunset. Blaine's gesture encompasses the camp rolled out below, and the darkness snagged in the trees.

"Ordinarily, I'd bring someone here to admire the view," his tone secrets a laugh, "but for you, I give the gift of technology." He darts a smug sidelong glance towards Kurt, who, after regarding him blankly for a protracted moment, is lit with realisation and scrabbles for his cell phone.

"Ah!" he holds it aloft in triumph, "You're a wonder."

The first number he hastily punches in belongs to Mercedes. The furious letter he's been mentally composing since he arrived skitters soundlessly from his tongue under her barrage of impatient questions. A conversation with an irate Mercedes is tantamount to experiencing mental implosion.

"Mercedes! Hi - no, I - yes, well-" he manages, "Mercedes, I've only just found a signal - Mercedes, I've only just-," he breaks off with a sigh, "Yes, that's what I - No, I'm having - No, listen, I have to tell you it's - it's... No. You don't need to worry - you don't - Everything's fine, Mercedes. Yes, really - I'm okay. Love you too. I'll speak to you soon, I promise."

Blaine, having pointedly cast his gaze out across the campsite, inclines an inquisitive smile over his shoulder as Kurt hangs up with a sigh.

He doesn't need to look at him to read the question: "She's my best friend. She worries... and after all," he offers a bland smile to the scuffed toes of his boots, "it's only summer camp."

Blaine's laugh is relaxed, hands stowed in his pockets, "So you are aware." Kurt hums absently, turning his phone over in his hand contemplatively. "What is it?"

"I wanted to phone my Dad," his nose wrinkles, "but I think it would be best to leave them in peace," he smiles at Blaine, "he's on his honeymoon." He slides his phone decisively into his pocket. "Listen. Blaine - thank you. That meant a lot to me."

"No problem, Kurt. I don't want you to be miserable here. No one does." Kurt can't help the thought that ricochets through his mind: Not everyone, it seems. "So much so that I'm late for my meeting with the boss. I better run, Kurt." He lifts a hand in farewell, starting down the slope in a jog before he turns on one heel, "Ah - our first choir meeting's tomorrow in the main hall. You better show, Hummel."

"Are you kidding?" He calls, "This might just make the whole ordeal worth it!"

"I'll remember you said that!"

Kurt watches him go, warmth pooling pleasantly in his stomach. Maybe more than one thing'll make this worth it. He can't quite stifle the flicker of curiosity in the back of his mind, whether Blaine is so accommodating with everyone.

He heaves a sigh, his eyes trailing Blaine's dwindling figure as it takes off towards the camp at a jog. He pretends he isn't wondering whether Blaine will glance back at him, and instead why he didn't invite him to head back to camp with him. Kurt's answer materialises in the form of blunt nails scratching the back of his neck; it is a gesture he finds impossible to construe as friendly.

"New kid." Frankie. Kurt affects a bored glance over his shoulder, blanching when he sees the group snaking up the hill in her wake. At their head, the leader - anonymous enthusiast #3 - gives a buoyant wave.

"Mr. Hummel!" He bellows, "I see you have anticipated me. Tell me," he inclines his head and one arched, bushy eyebrow in a potential leer, "are you inclined for a nature walk?"

Kurt does not know how to answer this. He glares past Frankie's bored visage, mind grappling for a retort, when his eyes fall on Karofsky at the rear of the group, and his stomach sinks. Noticing him in the same moment, Dave's bored glaze contorts into a scowl.

Kurt breaks the gaze with a pointed sniff, leveling the expectant leader with a determined look, "I'm afraid I'm not feeling up to it." He feels Kaorfsky's glare on the side of his face like a physical touch.

Karofsky gestures impatiently for his colleague to lead the group on before turning Frankie with one hand on her shoulder and shoving her after them. Kurt turns his back, arms crossed and disgruntled scowl thrown out beyond the campsite.

"What's your problem, Hummel? Ever since you've got here you've been nothing but a goddamn pain in the ass."

Kurt exhales harshly in exasperation through a tightly clenched jaw, "I don't see how it's anyone's business whether I participate in this Hell."  
"Will you quit being such a drama-whore? It won't kill you to lower yourself to the same level as everybody else."  
Kurt turns with a low noise of disgust and regards him with steely incredulity, "They pay you to talk to kids like that?"

Karofsky lifts one large hand to tug at his hair in frustration; he grinds out a curse between clenched teeth, "Fuck this, Hummel. Just because some people need to work to earn their keep doesn't mean you can treat 'em like shit.  
Kurt raises his chin haughtily and adopts an archly innocent tone, "Why so angry? I'm staying out of your way. You're the one seeking me out for petty squabbles," he arches one fine eyebrow, "Something on your mind, Karofsky?"

Karofsky stalks forward a single step, crowding Kurt back towards the edge of the hill, which might as well be a precipice yawning over a cavern, the way Kurt's nerves are suddenly singing. For the first time in this head-to-head, Kurt feels the adrenaline of his self-righteousness dissolve away, and feels every bit the fear that Karofsky's hulking figure warrants. Between a rock and a hard place indeed.

Karofsky must see the flicker of doubt in his eyes, because a smirk curls the hard line of his mouth; an ugly, sour expression, "Regretting the cheek now, Hummel?"

Kurt rallies, a muscle in one pale cheek twitching: "I'm not afraid of Neanderthals."

Karofsky scoffs, but steps back out of his space, and Kurt feels as if he can breathe again. "You think you're special Hummel? Too good to get your hands dirty? You think because you dress like a fairy and act like a queen you're better than me?"

Kurt's brow wrinkles in bafflement; this wasn't supposed to be about Karofsky. This was about a dumb nature walk in his expensive boots, with only Frankie the apparent sociopath for conversation. In that moment, Kurt despises Karofsky. He, who looks down on Kurt as if he were the hypocritical one, the arrogant one.

Taut with anger, he feels a quiver travel down his rigid spine: "That's not why I'm better than you." Without waiting to risk Karofsky's displeasure, he stalks past him, and tries not to make his noble exit resemble scurrying away with his tail between his legs.

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_Please let me know what you think!_


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt restrains a cringe as unconvincing grey meat product is slapped on his plate. He takes the un-appetising dish gingerly and turns, struck with sudden self-consciousness as he scans the crowded mess hall. His eyes fall on Frankie, who sits with a ring of empty seats radiating out from around her. On closer inspection, she appears to be carving shapes into her food with a chilling, single-minded ferocity. Kurt startles when her gaze snaps unerringly to meet his, feeling strangely caught out. She raises one brow and he assumes an invitation.

He sits opposite her with a bland smile, "Frankie."

She doesn't look up. "Did I mention that the food was the worst part of this shit hole?"

Kurt drops his gaze to his plate with an air of trepidation, "You didn't have to. No such thing as holiday pounds here, I see..." He decisively pushes it aside with one finger, watching as Frankie stabs the tines of her pork through the clotting mash. Kurt rests his chin in his palm with a gusty sigh, his eyelids drooping morosely. He doesn't look up from the table, too anxious that his eyes might chance to fall on Karofsky. The adrenaline from their fight that evening still runs through him like electricity, making his fingers shake and churning to nausea in his stomach.

Frankie glances up from her plate with dark eyed impatience, her fork clutched idly like a cigarette, "What's up your butt?"

Kurt rolls his eyes half-heartedly. "As touching as I find your concern, nothing's up my butt, thank you very much," he drawls.

Frankie grunts, "Fine. Don't tell me. But you won't hear me crying if you're just gonna sit and sulk." She jabs her fork in punctuation; Kurt flinches at the sensation of mashed potato flecking his skin. His lip curls with a ready retort but she carelessly overrides him, hooded eyes flickering between Kurt's exasperated face and her congealing food. "Seriously. I'm not here to listen to your problems-"

"Why are you here, Frankie?" Kurt mutters, picking idly at the grain of the tabletop.

"So it's no skin off my nose if you -" she stops abruptly, flashing dangerous eyes to Kurt's unimpressed glaze, her lip tugging back to reveal white canines. "Fine." She bites out, throwing herself back in her chair. "You've a face like a smacked ass, Hummel."

"That's the least of my problems," he mumbles dispiritedly, "I've a personal neanderthal on my back."

She purrs a note of intrigue and blandly drums cigarette ash into her lukewarm coffee. Kurt had not seen her light it. "Impressive," she drawls. "You've only been here a day and you've earned yourself a nemesis."

Kurt utters a high, nervous laugh, and interlaces his fingers to stop their trembling. "Well believe me when I say it wasn't on top of my to do list this summer."

She grunts, releasing a mouthful of smoke, and curtly ignoring the disgruntled look shot from three seats down. "Who is it then, this admirer?" she mouths the word with salacious deliberation.

The corner of Kurt's mouth ticks down with restless unease, "That oaf - Karofsky. He's been at my throat since the moment I got here."

Frankie is quiet for so long that Kurt glances up at her, the silence protracting uncomfortably while Kurt shifts under her inscrutable gaze. He's grateful when she breaks the moment, her lips thinning when she speaks: "Karofsky's a good guy."

Kurt blinks, "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious." Her eyes hold a bland warning. Kurt stares at her warily, as if awaiting the punchline to some joke, and she impatiently plucks the cigarette from her lips, rolling her eyes as if greatly put upon. "He isn't unbearable like the others," she bristles defensively. "They're all so smug. It makes you sick." She shoots a contemptuous eye across the room, and Kurt notices that more than one person shoots her a wary glance before hastily averting their gaze.

Kurt sputters, turning to her with incredulous eyes: "Karofsky? I've just met him, yes, but as far as I can tell he's an unmitigated bully who thinks the sun shines out of his posterior."

"He's a good guy," she grinds out between clenched teeth, her tone steely.

Kurt's eyes narrow suspiciously and he lifts his chin, steeling himself under her baleful glare. "You two aren't... You know..." His mind flashes back to Karofsky's hulking figure, the ripple of tension that had shuddered over his broad shoulders. Certainly athletic, if aggressive... It isn't impossible to imagine that someone might find him attractive - someone like Frankie, whose own bad humour is only marginally kinder than his.

Frankie interrupts this unsettling chain of thought with a snort, her eyes blandly appraising as they flicker over Kurt's wary expression. Kurt accepts her expression of amused disgust as answer enough.

He shakes his head slightly. "Well if a lurid affair isn't the answer then I can't imagine what could induce such," his nose wrinkles, "tolerance."

"You're talking out of your ass, Hummel. You've only known him twenty four hours and you reckon you've got him pegged." She fixes him with cold eyes, "And you think you're the injured party."

Kurt utters a small gasp and draws himself up, mustering as much dignity as one can while cramped into a cabin amid raucous chatter and the smell of grease.

"I didn't pick the fight, Francesca," his voice sounds breathless to his own ears, fingers curling against the sticky table top in anticipation of another fight. He's just deliberating between stalking from the hall and risking the loss of his only associate and sticking around to fight this out when Frankie blinks, and just like that the coldness bleeds from her gaze. Kurt's shoulders slump, the fight leaving him. _You're still settling in_, he tells himself, _these problems will go just as soon as you're less prone to emotional hysteria._

She jerks her cigarette in lazy dismissal, uttering a bored sigh; Kurt watches the motion with furrowed brow, marvelling at Frankie's blase assumption of social immunity. Over his shoulder, her eyes narrow on some other victim; Kurt cranes to follow her gaze, his eyes landing with surprise upon Blaine, who glances up and flashes a bright smile. Kurt returns it, feeling reassured for the first time in hours at this reminder that not everyone at Creosote is a potential serial killer.

Frankie affects a shudder, turning her sombre face on Kurt, who drops his gaze, unnerved despite himself. His eyes fall on the cigarette butt, stubbed out in the middle of her dinner.

"I hate Anderson."

Kurt's head snaps up in surprise, "Blaine? Really? He seems like the only sane person here."  
"It's an act," she mutters contemptuously, "He's a real piece of work."

"He says the same thing about you," Kurt murmurs, feeling slightly dazed. He glances over his shoulder curiously, abruptly quashing the petty notion that he had indeed been set up back on the hill, and catches the wink that Blaine throws from across the cafeteria. _Stupid, charming Blaine_, he curses internally, _trying to make him enjoy himself._

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A/N: It has been so long since I last updated that I forgot how to use the site in the interim... I am so sorry I kept you waiting for what turned out to be another short chapter, but I hope you'll keep plugging along with me. I've been really busy lately fooling around with other ideas - poor excuse, I know - but rest assured, the ensuing chapters will be quick to follow. I swear. I think.

I'm really grateful to everyone who's taken the time to get in touch with me - it is greatly appreciated!


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